


And the green grass grows all around

by bitter_crimson (Krim)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-10
Updated: 2007-10-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 10:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10592571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krim/pseuds/bitter_crimson





	

There's a subtle science to having the lushest lawn in the neighborhood. It requires finesse: the exact chemical composition of the perfect fertilizer, the correct occasional application of synthetically altered and organic pesticides, regulating the water intake, varying the mow height depending on the season, varying the mow angles (of course), aeration to combat compaction, and-- Well, an experimental trailblazer couldn't be expected to give away all his secrets, could he? Rodney McKay _knew_ he had the perfect lawn: knew it from years of experience, from traveling the country to compare his own handiwork with that of other leaders in the field. Leaders-- ha! There was absolutely no contest. Compared to those charlatans, McKay was a veritable _god_ of lawn care. His annual summer showing had become a regional event fellow lawn enthusiasts flocked to from the entire province, with a few travelers showing up each year from farther abroad, come to see the master's work. Rodney took pride in his well-deserved success.

And then, _he_ arrived.

The "for sale" sign had been up on the house next door for close to half a year. Each of Rodney's new neighbors over the past decade or so had followed the same pattern: move in with the goal of finally beating the master, tend to their lawns for a year or two, then give up in despair and put the place up for sale again. McKay supposed they must think that something in the ground is what lends his lawn its perfection, and smirks each time a new challenger arrives, knowing it's only a matter of time until their downfall. There's nothing in the _ground_ (besides superior topsoil Rodney imported himself, of course) that makes his lawns perfect, no natural phenomenon that lends them their sheen: it's pure scientific _genius_. But apparently the neighbors (all of them) just can't comprehend that.

But this one.

When the moving truck arrived, Rodney watched it with binoculars from his second-floor side window. Even though he knew he couldn't be defeated, it never hurt to know what new technology the competition might have brought with them. However, as the movers unloaded the van, Rodney was perplexed. A big-screen TV, some couches, work-out equipment, an enormous wooden frame that looked like a bed, but contained no mattress... None of these things were in any way related to _lawn care_. Eventually, of course, came the boxes, which Rodney was certain must contain all of his new neighbor's supplies, but there weren't nearly enough of them.

Something fishy was definitely going on here. McKay discarded his binoculars, set his jaw, and went downstairs.

When Rodney got out to the moving truck, one of the two moving men was crouched, fishing around in one of the (very few) remaining boxes, his back to the truck's opening. Rodney stopped at the beginning of the truck's ramp and cleared his throat, but received no response, so he tried it again. Nothing.

"Ahem!" Rodney said, extremely loudly this time. "Do you _mind_?"

The moving man twisted around from his crouching position, reveling the most impossible hair McKay had ever seen. No _wonder_ he had trouble hearing. "Oh, hey," the man said, grinning. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

Rodney's lip pulled up in a sneer. "Of course you didn't; you were too busy snooping through whatever's in that box. Does your boss know you steal from your customers?"

The man's eyebrows shot up, and he rose to his feet. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, I saw you!" McKay planted his hands on his hips and jutted his chin up haughtily. "I don't know if your other moving cohort is in on the scam as well, but let me tell you, even if the person you're stealing from might be my newest competitor, I'm not going to let this kind of behavior go unreported!"

Only the moving man looked sort-of pissed now, and was starting down the van ramp, one arm beginning to raise from his side, and only now did it occur to Rodney that maybe it _hadn't_ been such a good idea to confront the extremely fit-looking criminal moving man alone, with the moving van _right there_ , where it would be _so easy_ to stash his body--

"Hi," the moving man said, palm outstretched. "I'm John Sheppard, your new neighbor."

\---

It was impossible, literally, _impossible_. Rodney knew _every_ secret, every trick of the trade, every rare folk remedy and every state-of-the-art technique. No-one could produce a better lawn than him, and they certainly could never, _ever_ do it without even trying.

And yet, that's what John my-hair-requires-its-own-fertilizer Sheppard appeared to be doing.

Sheppard barely tended to his lawn at all. He only mowed it _once a week_ , if that, and he regularly went outside and _lay_ on it on blankets, towels, and other implements of lawn torture, wearing _very little clothing_ and doing something ludicrous like reading a book. (Upon inspection with Rodney's binoculars, it appeared to be some form of Russian literature, which was just _one more thing_ to add to the bizarre list of Sheppard's behaviors.) Really, the man _defied sense_. He had moved next door to Rodney McKay, which implied that he was a lawn aficionado, and yet the man didn't seem to know the next thing about properly caring for a high-quality lawn.

Which made it all the more infuriating when his lawn kept getting more and more perfect each day.

Of course, Rodney spared no expense in retaliating, pulling out _all_ the stops, even those more dangerous theoretical techniques and formulas he had stored away but haven't tried before now for fear of possibly adverse consequences. There was no more room now for playing it safe. This was _war_.

Sometimes Sheppard spotted Rodney out making his careful adjustments and waved at him, clearly mocking him, and Rodney gritted his teeth so hard he could almost feel the enamel cracking. It couldn't be tolerated! He bent over the ground furiously each time, applying each treatment with renewed vigor, vowing to destroy that pointy-eared interloper and all he stood for.

"Say, McKay!" Sheppard called one afternoon, trotting over toward the dividing line between their properties in his usual state of near-undress, aviator sunglasses perched on his nose and dark-patterned swim trunks barely hugging his narrow hips.

"Stop right there!" Rodney screeched, pointing with his finger and glaring at the enemy's approach. "Don't you dare take one step on my lawn!"

"Geez, don't get your panties up in a bunch," Sheppard smirked. He stopped right before the grass changed its color, his own side almost impossibly bright green next to Rodney's. "I won't step on your precious lawn."

Staring down at Sheppard's feet and the perfect grass beneath them, Rodney heard a roaring in his ears, everything gradually going red, especially at the evil faker's flippant comment about Rodney's _own_ lawn, and he was perilously close to just throwing himself across that invisible space and tackling Sheppard into all that lush perfection, he could feel it building--

"...come over for dinner sometime?" Sheppard finished saying.

Rodney looked up and blinked. "Excuse me, what did you just say?"

"I asked if you wanted to come over for dinner sometime," Sheppard said again. "I mean, we've been neighbors for a fair number of months now, but we've never really had a conversation, unless you count you yelling at me to keep off your grass." He smirked and the sun reflected off his sunglasses. "I kind of want to get to know you a little better."

Obviously the evil Sheppard was trying to infiltrate Rodney's operation, win him over so he could steal all his secrets. Fortunately for Rodney, _two_ could play at that game.

"I'd love to," Rodney said. The words felt strange in his mouth.

Sheppard beamed. "Great! How's tomorrow for you?"

"Tomorrow's-- Fine, tomorrow's fine."

"Around seven? I'll see you then!" And with one final annoying grin to show off his irritatingly white teeth, Sheppard spun and bounded back over to his evil lawn-killing towel, his various muscles flexing stupidly as he set himself back down again.

McKay directed one last scowl in Sheppard's direction for good measure before heading inside to begin constructing his plan of attack.

\---

When Rodney rang Sheppard's doorbell, he didn't expect the other man to answer it so quickly, but almost before Rodney's finger had broken contact with the button, the front door was open and Sheppard was standing there, clad in overly-tight jeans and a striped dress shirt with the top few buttons undone. It was an extremely haphazard-looking outfit. Also, there was something wrong with Sheppard's hair-- that was, more than usual. Rodney scowled at him.

"Hey, McKay," Sheppard said, smiling. "Come on in."

And so Rodney entered enemy territory, taking one last breath before he did so just for good measure. He had been inside the house before, when it was under the jurisdiction of some of its previous owners, but it was different now. Those pretenders had never posed a threat to him, but he could feel the danger now, standing in Sheppard's foyer, a deep, low thrum somewhere in his gut, radiating outward to the rest of his body. His face felt a little hot and Rodney took a few controlled breaths to calm himself down, remembering the plan he had so carefully thought out, his method of finally beating Sheppard at his own game.

"You want some wine?" Sheppard called over his shoulder as he walked down the hall toward the kitchen.

McKay followed, as cool as ice. "Sure," he said. Clearly, Sheppard thought he could cloud Rodney's mental faculties by plying him with alcohol, but ha, he'd soon learn that was not to be the case! People always incorrectly assumed Rodney was a lightweight, for some reason.

"Here."

Rodney gripped the offered glass and pulled it toward his mouth, taking a small sip. Oh, he had this entire situation _completely_ under control.

\---

"Fuck, McKay, Rodney, right there..." Sheppard gasped, grinding up against him.

Rodney blinked hazily. How in the world had this-- Had he-- He had a plan, damn it! An extremely well thought-out plan of attack containing contingencies for just about every possible deviation of events, except-- Oh, fuck, that felt good. He gripped Sheppard's hips and thrust down a little harder as the dark-haired lawn-stealing hussy whined up at him.

"I don't..." Rodney panted in-between thrusts. "What are we-- Fuck!"

"Less... talking, McKay..." grunted Sheppard, and since he subsequently attacked Rodney's mouth with his own Rodney felt himself forced to obey.

\---

When it was over, Rodney found himself stretched immobile on Sheppard's water bed ( _that_ was why there had been no mattress!) with a foreign arm and leg flung over him, his brain still racing to catch up with what had happened.

"But--" he said.

"I told you all this before, McKay, remember?" Sheppard said fondly, rolling on his side and tucking an elbow under his head. Rodney had no idea how he managed to do that without looking like an idiot on the water bed.

"Before when?" Rodney asked stupidly.

"Before the sex, McKay." Sheppard smirked and leaned in to steal a few lazy kisses. "But after the wine."

Rodney allowed himself to be kissed just because he was still too lazy too move. "That was good wine," he said.

"Yes, it was."

"But I still don't remember how it led to sex," McKay insisted.

"Well," Sheppard said, quirking an eyebrow. "You finished your first glass of wine, and I asked you if you wanted more, and you said yes, so I poured you another, and even though I tried to cut you off you just kept on going and before I knew it you were drunkenly accusing me of sabotaging your lawn with my hair."

Rodney, frowning, vaguely remembered this. "Go on."

"I denied any lawn sabotage and you declared that that was the only way my lawn could ever be better than yours, because, I quote, I am a 'stupidly pretty lawn-ignorant hussy who wouldn't know a fertilizer if it bit me in the ass,' at which I declared that I could think of much more interested things to do with my ass, and that was about the time you shoved me up against the wall and started kissing me."

"Hmm." Turning the events over in his mind, Rodney could find no fault with them, though he still wasn't sure how he'd ended up in the ocean. "These waves are moving a lot," he said.

Sheppard chuckled and pulled on Rodney's arm, and Rodney couldn't really help it if the waves on the bed seemed to make him drift over toward John until they were completely entangled with each other.

"But I don't get it," Rodney insisted to himself on the edge of dozing off. "You still haven't explained how your lawn is better than mine. Because I will never admit this again, but it is, and I've never seen you do anything beyond the ordinary in terms of lawn maintenance and it just doesn't make any _sense_ \--"

"Shhhh," Sheppard consoled him, ghosting his lips over Rodney's face as the other man drifted into sleep. "It's really not that complicated. I've always had inexplicably good luck with lawns. But I do have one other secret technique for getting the perfect grass to grow."

"Yeah?" Rodney asked as he fell into unconsciousness. "What's that?"

John leaned in close to Rodney's ear and spoke lightly so the words wouldn't disturb the barely-asleep man. "I talk to it," he said softly, "and I tell it all the thoughts I have about you."

The next summer, the jointly-owned McKay-Sheppard lawn was lusher than anything lawn enthusiasts had ever seen.


End file.
